Road Trip
by Jane Dilton
Summary: Holmes and Watson travel to the Midwest during the Thanksgiving holiday. *Note to Road Trip followers: the university I attend is currently heading into its finals week, from which I will emerge a sadder but more knowledgeable person. Sadly, this means the next update can be expected around May 8th*
1. The call

The call came in the middle of the night. For a second after waking Joan peered around in the dark room, trying to place what it was that woke her so suddenly. Moonlight shone on the floor by her bed and the yellow glow through the crack under her door indicated Sherlock was still up working on a case. Nothing unusual. Then she heard it again—a low, indecipherable conversation coming from the floor below. Joan lay back down again, equal parts relieved and annoyed. A phone call at—she glanced at the alarm clock—four a.m., though inconsiderate, was not out of the ordinary. Well, since she was awake she might as well use the bathroom. Maybe that was what woke her, Joan thought as she swung her legs off the bed. What happened to being able to sleep through the night?

The hallway was blinding with its incandescent lighting, and Joan shielded her eyes as she shuffled to the bathroom, wondering for not the first time what she was doing living with a person who would by choice conduct investigations at four in the morning.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and was about to close the bathroom door with an amount of force that was pointed but not too heated when her name gave her pause.

"Watson."

Joan turned and peered at him with some difficulty. It was too bright to see his expression, but he was standing one step below the top of the stairs facing her.

"Sorry to interrupt your nightly ritual, Watson, but I wanted to let you know that I have some urgent business to take care of which requires my absence for seventy-two hours. A tip came in about a case that I have been eagerly pursuing."

"Oh," Joan replied. "When are you leaving?"

"This minute," Sherlock replied. An odd second ticked by where neither of them moved. "There's been a body, and I want to examine the evidence as soon as possible, before it is contaminated," he explained. She could see him a little better now. Only Sherlock, she mused, would look so animated after getting a call in the middle of the night about a dead body.

"Okay," she said, slowly retreating into the bathroom, "I'll just look over old case files while you're gone. Which case is it?"

"One I keep in File Q, I haven't shown it to you before," said he, already moving with alarming speed down the stairs.

"You mean the laundry bag with all the papers inside?" she called after him.

"Don't forget to feed Clyde," he called back before she shut the bathroom door.

* * *

When she found her way to the kitchen the next morning however, there he was, sipping from a mug of coffee and pouring over the contents of what must be an entire filing cabinet spread generously over the kitchen table.

"You missed a spot," Joan said grumpily, clearing out a space on the table for her smoothie ingredients. He didn't seem to hear her, but bid her good morning when he started from the sound of the blender going off.

"Good morning," she replied. "I'm surprised to see you back so soon-I thought you said the trip was going to take three days."

Sherlock took a brooding sip of his coffee.

"False positive. I was barely out of Brooklyn when the call came and I turned back again. Pity too. There was a good spot on the airwaves with a Dr. Dora and a woman mourning the loss of her pet cockatoo."

"I didn't realize you liked radio psychologists," said Joan, looking at him oddly, "you seemed so against the whole profiling thing with your ex."

He gave her a look.

"I find psychologists in all their forms, whether on the radio or behind the façade of a profiler, utterly abhorrent. The idea that a human being is ruled by subconscious impulses propagating through hundreds of thousands of years to determine his current behavior is not only pathological pseudo-science, but in its disregard for the complexities of modern society it is also extremely vapid, an insult to the human intelligence it purports to study. No, I was merely interested in the Machiavellian ways that Dr. Dora was able to cloud her audience's judgment. "

She frowned at him.

"That's not what most psychologists think."

"Oh right," said Sherlock, returning to his papers again, "I'm sure your shrink is more of a Jungian type."

It would be pointless, Joan reminded herself, to ask how he knew she was seeing someone. Instead she drank her smoothie and looked over the papers spread on the table.

"I take it you didn't sleep last night?"

"No, it was daylight by the time I got back and besides, I was more than awake after Dr. Dora's lesson on love and loss. Figured I might as well get back to it."

"Well," she said, washing her cup in the sink, "I got plenty of sleep so if you want some help on that case I'll be glad to."

"Actually I put it away for now, but we can work on the latest from Captain Gregson after your shower." He looked up, "It was reminding me too much of our favorite radio shrink."

* * *

Evening.

Joan sat curled up in the armchair sifting through the paper clipped contents of a folder as Sherlock examined something on the opposite couch. It was an interesting case. All boys prep school, English teacher dead of a heart attack, ruled accidental. Sherlock, of course, thought otherwise. Joan was studying the files of the school staff, searching for connections. As Sherlock crossed the room to the record player, she noted something unusual in the file of a Mr. Alfred Regenstein and colored over the line with her highlighter.

What sounded like Baroque music filled the room. Joan looked up, decided not to say anything, and turned her attention back to her folder.

"Going to your parents' again this Thanksgiving?"

Joan paused with her highlighting and looked up again. Sherlock was tinkering with his collection of cell phones.

"Wisconsin, actually," she said. "We're all meeting at Oren's this year."

"Oh right," he replied, glancing up briefly, "Time to show off the house with the new Mrs."

"Why do you ask," said Joan, going back to the files. "You're staying here for the holiday again right?"

"Actually," Sherlock said, putting down his phones to fix her with an earnest gaze, "I was wondering whether you would do me the favor of dropping me off in Chicago on your way to Wisconsin."

She looked up at him in surprise and smiled.

"Does this mean you're finally going to accept my mother's invitation and spend the holiday with us?"

"No," said Sherlock, picking up a cell phone and prodding it with a wire again, "I have a client there whose case requires my presence to tie up."

Joan raised her eyebrows.

"So you want me to drive you to Chicago."

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Actually," said Joan, frowning, "it's a lot of trouble. It'll take us a full day just to get to Chicago."

"You do it every year."

"I fly. To Michigan."

"Yes, so this is ideal," said Sherlock, "Chicago is on the way to Wisconsin, whereas any other year it would be out of the way." He nodded helpfully.

"I'm not driving you to Chicago. Do you know how much the gas would cost?"

"I will subsidize the cost of transportation."

Joan perked up a bit.

"From Chicago to Gurney too?"

"Where's that?" he asked, still prodding.

"Near Lake Superior."

Sherlock looked at her.

"I'm not a bottomless pit."

"You want me to drive you from New York to Chicago," she reminded him emphatically.

"It's the holidays. Prices for airline tickets will be at least the cost of gas."

"Yes," Joan agreed, "But driving means I'll be spending two days with you in a car. And you don't even have a license so I won't even have a break. You know, people are paid to do that—they're called taxi drivers."

"Fine, I'll cover the expense to your brother's home as well."

She watched Sherlock tinker for a while, thinking it over.

"How would you get back," she asked slowly.

"You can pick me up on your way back from your family's festivities."

For a few moments there was only the melodic muffle of horns playing against the comfortingly measured tinkering of a harpsichord.

"I wouldn't trouble you," Sherlock said quietly, "But I would very much rather not have to fly. You remember our conversation regarding pilots."

Joan sighed, already regretting her decision.

"Fine. But no back seat driving." She eyed him. "How _did_ you get here from London?"

Sherlock stood up.

"Excellent. Well, this calls for a celebratory cup of tea. I'll make us some."


	2. On the road

"We're sixty miles from Cleveland. We could get there under an hour to get something to eat."

"Not hungry."

"It's almost five. We've been driving for almost four hours. I need something just to stay awake."

"Had a big lunch."

Joan glanced over at her sullen companion, who was sitting sunk into the seat squinting at his smart phone.

"Well, you can stay in the car, but I'm going to get out and stretch my legs. There's no point in driving across half the country if we don't get out and look around every once in a while."

Sherlock peered into the distant road stretching before them over the rim of his phone and said didactically, "The point of driving is to get to our intended location as quickly as possible—which, in this case I admit, does seem futile as I imagine I could jog faster than the speed we are currently traveling by."

Joan said, "We're stopping in Cleveland."

"As you wish."

Joan tapped her index finger slowly against the steering wheel a few times before looking away from the road again.

"You know," she said matter-of-factly, "If you had a driver's license I'd probably even be okay with not stopping every four hours like a sane person. But since you're in my car and I'm the only driver, I get to call the shots."

"Between Alfredo, Pam and yourself I have a virtual fleet of valets at my disposal. Living in New York City on top of that makes the need to own a car superfluous. Besides, riding as the passenger has its benefits. Despite the aggravation of traveling at a near snail's pace I have managed to wrap up a few loose ends on several of our cases, and I've gotten a lead on another."

"Yes," said Joan dryly, "It makes for such good conversation."

She was quiet for a while, and then, unable to help herself added—

"Could have taken a plane, you know."

This earned her a tired glare from her passenger. There was a beep from his smart phone and Sherlock quickly scanned the message, looking immediately satisfied.

"Excellent. Williams says the police have located the black duffel bag with a Nike logo in the third dumpster by the company alleyway, precisely where I said it would be. Now all I need to do is go in and talk to the night guard. Whole thing should be over within an hour."

He glanced over at the speedometer, then watched her restlessly for a while.

"You say you always drive at the speed limit," he began.

"It's on cruise control," Joan answered without looking up.

Sherlock flopped back into position again, looking slightly peeved. Joan felt herself beginning to relent; it was all making for a lot of negative energy.

"I might set it a few notches higher if you talked to me," she offered.

He looked up instantly from his phone.

"I'm fairly certain it was the delivery man. He's the only one who was in a bind, financially speaking. I noticed during one of the interviews—

"No, no. Please," Joan interrupted, partially raising a hand from the wheel. "I don't want to hear about cases. We're traveling. We're on the road. This is a road trip."

"Yes, a road trip," Sherlock agreed, "That is, a trip on a road that takes us from point A to point B so that I can solve a handsome case in Chicago before the last leaves drop off from the remaining leaf-bearing trees in the entire state of Illinois."

Joan caught herself rolling her eyes again; she was trying to stop the habit, but sometimes it was really difficult.

"I don't want to think about work continuously," she explained. "I want to enjoy myself. It's autumn. The world is changing colors. This is supposed to be a vacation."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly in her direction.

"I didn't say you could have vacations."

She gave him a look.

"I would _pay_ to have a vacation."

Sherlock stared out the window. After a while he made a tutting sound and gestured toward the passenger window with some distaste.

"Changing colors," he echoed contemptuously, "Look at the view, it's—it's just cornfields! Left and right."

"There's some trees," said Joan, "Besides, you're the one who needed a lift. If it weren't for you I would've just flown in to Wisconsin. How do you know someone from Chicago anyway?"

"He was looking for some gift advice for his apiculturist brother on the internet once. I introduced him to the affordable yet high quality extractor I use. He dabbles a bit now too."

"Who knew beekeeping was so prevalent in big cities."

It was silent for a while, the enveloping sky a steely grey.

"I could take over for a while if you want," Sherlock finally said.

"Don't worry, it's set at five over the limit now."

"I mean if you're tired. I can take over."

"You don't even have a license!"

Sherlock looked around them pointedly.

"Do you see police anywhere?"

"Just take a nap," said Joan with some exasperation, "We'll be in Cleveland in thirty minutes."

* * *

When they finally arrived at the doorstep of Mr. and Mrs. Williams, at 1033 Chinook Circle, it was close to eleven.

Sherlock rapped sharply two times on the mahogany front door. As the seconds ticked by Joan looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"You did tell them we were coming today, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

They could see a shadow cross the entry way to the door. The lock clicked, and presently a tall, balding man with a full grey beard ushered them amicably into the home.

"Quite a drive, " remarked Mr. Williams, smiling at them through his reading glasses and gesturing for them to take off their coats, "Long way from New York City, you two must be exhausted."

"Mr. Williams," said Sherlock, briskly shaking his hand, "A pleasure to meet you in person. Sherlock Holmes; this is my associate, Ms. Watson."

Joan and Mr. Williams exchanged pleasantries.

"Sorry to interrupt your night," said Sherlock, "I hope we haven't kept you and Mrs. Williams too long past your bedtime."

"Oh, no, Janie's already gone to bed. I was just looking over some of the police reports," Mr. Williams reassured them.

"Thanks for letting me stay over for the night," said Joan.

"Don't mention it. We have so few guests that those guest rooms are getting dusty. It's good to put them to use."

Williams beckoned them into the home. Joan followed the two men—Sherlock now interrogating their host about details of recent developments on the case—past a well-decorated family room to a stairway lined with picture frames. They were the usual decorations of a happy family: the Williams fishing in a sunlit lake, a young girl grinning in vest full of Girl Scout badges, the same girl as a young woman. Joan peered closer at a photo of Mrs. Williams smiling among a circle of people holding brass instruments, and then hurried along the steps to catch up with the others.

At the top of the stairs Sherlock and Mr. Williams were deep in conversation in one of the guest rooms, so Joan set her belongings down on the bed in the next room and wandered down the dim hallway. The home looked aged but in good condition, with the somewhat tight feeling of a home in a high density neighborhood. A glint of light in a dark room off the hall caught Joan's eye. She walked over and paused at the doorway, looking hesitantly over her shoulder. Mrs. Williams was asleep somewhere, and voices were still coming from the brightly lit guest room down the hall. Feeling a little guilty, Joan felt the wall for the light switch and walked into the room.

There were framed photos around the snug little room, of Mrs. Williams and of other musicians, most in color, some black and white. A long bookcase filled the far wall, and as Joan walked over to it she could see it was filled with scores. Several instrument cases sat along another wall, as well as an instrument stand and, in the middle of the room, a handsome wooden music stand. Joan was reading the caption on a poster when she heard approaching footsteps and Sherlock appeared around the door.

"There you are," said he, "Your phone was ringing inside your coat pocket." He held it up.

Joan looked at him.

"Do you know who she is?" she asked, pointing to a picture of Mrs. Williams.

"That is Mr. Williams' wife. Or as he referred to her earlier, Janie."

"I know, Janie. Short for Janet. Sherlock, she's _the_ Janet Williams."

He just looked at her.

"She's the principal trombonist of the Chicago Symphony," she said.

"That's right," recalled Sherlock. "Mr. Williams mentioned it to me once. They are quite an excellent ensemble; as I understand it, it is no easy feat to join their ranks."

"You don't understand," Joan said, looking up at the poster again, "She's arguably the best—no, she's _the _best classical trombone player in the world. I can't believe I'm in her house right now."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes quizzically at her.

"This is quite a sudden interest you've taken with classically trained trombone players."

"Well," she said, smiling a bit, "I used to play."

"Really. You were a prodigy."

"No—I was in the school band." She looked up,

"Jazz band," she clarified, "I liked it better than the classical stuff. But still, everyone knew about her."

Joan wandered over to the bookshelf a second time.

"Perhaps you should take a lesson," was Sherlock's advice.

Joan laughed, looking through the rows of scores, "I haven't even touched an instrument for ten years. Besides, I'm leaving in the morning."

"It doesn't take long to pick up," said Sherlock. "Playing an instrument is like riding a bicycle, once you've gained your balance you can never forget how to do it again."

Joan thought about the songs she heard him play the first time she had convinced him to pick up his violin, at least six months after being admitted to rehab.

"Maybe for you," she said smiling.

Her phone began to ring. Sherlock, who was still holding it, looked at the name.

"Your mother," he stated.

"Here," Joan said, reaching for it, but Sherlock had already answered.

"Mrs. Watson," he said warmly, "Yes, this is Sherlock. Yes, thank you. Yes I did. Yes, she's here, one moment."

He handed the phone over to his scowling companion.

"It's your mother," he whispered again, unnecessarily.

Joan took it.

"Hi mom. Yeah, Chicago. I'm dropping him off on my way to Oren's. No, it's just for a case."

There was a pause as Joan listened to the phone, looking skeptical. Sherlock watched her intently.

"No, I don't think he wants to. I—" she sighed, placing a palm over the mouthpiece and looked at Sherlock.

"My mom wants to know if you'll come to Oren's for Thanksgiving with me."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly."

"He doesn't want to." Indecipherable but fervent sounds from the receiver. Joan handed the phone over to Sherlock, looking hassled, "She wants to speak to you."

"This is Sherlock. Yes. Yes I am. No—no I shouldn't…well yes. Yes alright. Yes I will. Thank you, I will. Alright, good bye."

He hung up and handed the phone back over to Joan, who looked incredulous.

"What? You're coming with me?"

Sherlock walked toward the door. "Yes, it appears I am."

"I thought you didn't want to," said Joan, following him into the hallway. "You told me two days ago that it was a superfluous holiday invented by Americans as an eternal monument to colonialism."

She stopped at the entrance of his guestroom.

"I just want to mention once again that that statement is ridiculous coming from the British," she added.

"Well, I couldn't refuse your mother's direct invitation, now could I," said Sherlock, shooting her a matter-of-fact glance as he pulled on his coat. "Besides, being in Chicago I don't have my usual excuse of distance."

Watson watched him wrap his scarf around his neck.

"Where are you going?"

"To the car to get your suitcase," he replied, already heading for the stairs.

"I don't need my suitcase," said Joan, hurrying down after him, "I'm just staying overnight."

"No you're not, there's a winter storm advisory for northern Wisconsin tomorrow afternoon. You're staying another night. We need to turn in early tonight; tomorrow you can accompany me to Mr. Williams' company to wrap up the case. I'll fill you in on the details on the way."

At the bottom of the stairs he turned to her.

"Looks like you can get that lesson after all."


End file.
